The Kansas Hit
by CSI Clue
Summary: Behind every crime scene are dedicated professionals at work . . . no matter where those crime scenes may be
1. Chapter 1

The Kansas Hit

"Okay, we have an elderly female vic, ID unknown for the moment, with severe blunt trauma out here approximately fifteen feet from the center of town. Eyewitnesses say she was unable to move out of the way in time and was subsequently crushed by the structure, which arrived out of quote, nowhere, unquote," Brass read from his notes.

Sara knelt and looked at the legs, which were all that were visible of the woman. She winced at the striped stockings. "Has David already pronounced?"

"He's delayed with a hearing, so he's passed jurisdiction to the local coroner," Brass replied, waving to the short man next to him. Moving at a stately pace, the minute coroner bent and looked over Sara's shoulder. He spoke in a low drone.

"As Coroner I must aver, I thoroughly examined her. And she's not only merely dead, she's really most sincerely dead."

"That's good . . . " Brass murmured. "Since she's got a farmhouse sitting on her face."

The coroner nodded. Sara pulled on some latex gloves and carefully moved one foot, the sparkly shoe on it glittering in the light.

"Do be careful!" came a sweet, twittery voice. Both Brass and Sara looked over at the woman in the sugary pink dress and glittery crown, who was smiling serenely at them.

Brass gave her a thumbs up and turned back to Sara, his voice low. "Local bigwig . . . itinerant, but knows all the right people."

"G.T. Good, yeah. Saw her on the cover of Bubble Up magazine . . ." Sara murmured, "Was she a witness?"

"Nah, she drifted in afterwards. Listen, I'm going to go talk to the out of town tourist—"

The next time Sara looked up, Grissom was there, turning his gaze from the scene, his smile bemused. "I've heard of bringing down the house—"

"—Or dropping in," she countered gently, a quirk to the corner of her mouth. "Check out the Mary Quant stockings."

Grissom crouched down and stared. "I don't recognize the shoes."

"They're not Astrabellas," Sara commented, "Probably some returnable brand."

They processed quietly, moving around the fractured wood, ignoring the brightly colored flowers and singing townsfolk, concentrating on the evidence. When Sara stepped inside the structure, she blinked a little, disoriented. Grissom looked up at her, his expression amused. "Monochromatic—this style went out in 1939."

"Oh wow . . . kinda . . . stark," Sara observed, looking at the scattered goods and broken glass littering the floor.

Grissom nodded. "The chiaroscuro effect. Looks like our drop-in tourist came a long way."

Sara picked up a chicken feather and studied it. "Egg-actly."

Grissom arched an eyebrow at the pun, but the corner of his mouth quirked up as well.

Brass returned a while later, looking slightly perturbed. He shook his head, turned away from the impromptu send-off for the girl in gingham, and cleared his throat. "Well, we had nothing to hold her on, and apparently she's anxious to get back to her folks."

"Name?" Grissom asked, watching everyone around him wave madly to the departing girl.

"Dorothy Gale—she declined to give her age, from Kansas . . . sounds phony to me," Brass shrugged. "But unless you guys can show me some motive for the killing—"

"How about the sister?" Grissom asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Brass nodded slightly.

"Mrs. W.W. West, yeah, she's a piece of work. I didn't want to release the shoes until we had some proof she was the next of kin, but between trying to get approval from the mayor and then that little run-in with the boys from the Lollipop Guild—I'm telling you, Randy Newman had it right."

"Um, guys--the body's gone—" Sara announced in frustration. All three of them turned to look back where the legs had been protruding under the wooden siding. Grissom moved to examine the spot once more.

"The house hasn't been moved—someone slid the body out from under it," Grissom muttered. Brass sighed.

"The day's just getting better and better. Time to round up a few short-sighted folks and see if we can figure out what's going on."

"Did we at least get an ID on her?" Sara asked softly, peeling off her latex gloves.

Grissom frowned. "What did the sister say?"

Brass's frown deepened. "She tentatively ID'ed the body via the shoes. Said her sister was Ms. W.W. East, local to these parts, and for the record, the woman was seriously worked up about those sparkly babies. If they're gone too, we're going to hear about it."

"So now it's personal," Sara replied questioningly.

Brass gave another shrug, tucking his notebook back into his breast pocket. "In this town, isn't it always?"

00oo00oo00

Having the house moved back to the lab took the better part of a day; There were the usual paperwork hassles about crossing jurisdictions, and securing the chain of evidence. In the end though, it arrived at the City Lab just as the call came in for a burglary at the cornfield out along Yellow 101.

Grissom and Sara took it, arriving at the intersection and meeting up with Brass once more. He looked preoccupied, and waved at the section of broken down fence behind him.

"We're missing a scarecrow. Not normally a big deal, but I thought you might want to see this—" He motioned to a section of the brick road in front of the cornfield. Grissom crouched down and pulled out a flashlight; in the strong beam, bits of red glitter sparkled, flakes of it scattered over a wide area, along with bits of straw.

And slightly muddy paw prints.

"Red glitter . . . but over a limited area," Grissom mused. "She had to have been--"

"—Dancing," Sara filled in confidently. "It's the only way the glitter would end up in a pattern like this." She looked across the brick road and stood up, carefully doing a quick daisy chain and soft shoe shuffle across the area, then gave a kick.

Grissom and Brass watched her for a long moment; self-consciously Sara stopped and turned, giving a half-shrug.

Brass managed a small smile. "Dancing."

"Stranger things have happened," Grissom mildly pointed out. "We're still getting unconfirmed reports on flying monkeys."

"I hate those things," Sara murmured, using tweezers to pick up some of the straw.

Brass nodded. "Nobody's windshield is safe anymore. So—Miss Gale had a dog with her when she left town, and we know she came along this way since it's a direct route from where the house crashed."

"And the glitter is a possible match for the shoes . . ." Grissom agreed, carefully tweezing up flakes and tucking them into bindles.

Sara looked over at the cornfield and frowned. "But why take a scarecrow? Why dance with one?" she asked softly, staring out at the brick road, as if it held the answer to her question.

"Sounds like she hit the poppy field early to me," Brass muttered, looking at the dog tracks.

"We'll run the straw samples through DNA," came Grissom's voice, "See if it's in CANON or not and take it from there. Did you get a breed on the dog?"

"Something small and hairy—looked like a toupee with legs," Brass replied with a grunt. Sara flashed him a grin.

"I thought you liked dogs?"

"Dogs are . . . ." Brass gestured, spreading his hands wide and high. ". . . Supposed to be bigger than a shoebox, you know? Give me a pet with substance every time."

Grissom looked as if he wanted to say something, but his beeper went off and he unclipped it, looking down at the text. He sighed. "Nick says the house is clean—no trace of the body OR the shoes, and the sister has announced she's taking matters into her own hands."

"Oh that will help, sure," Brass sighed. "Nothing like having a witch mad at you to improve things. I'll see if we can't pick Miss Gale up for a little questioning downtown and get some answers."

"Good idea. We can check her shoes then," Grissom agreed. Sara packed up the evidence and looked over as Brass left.

She smiled. "So, after we drop this off—Want to grab some lunch over at the Orchard?"

Grissom flashed her a sharp look, which softened when he nodded.

00oo00oo00

By the time they arrived though, part of the place was cordoned off, and Brass was already there, looking unhappy. Sara pulled off her sunglasses and parked them on the top of her head as he walked over, apple in hand.

"Agricultural assault, and I bet you'll never guess who was involved?"

Grissom was already looking at the yellow brick, his mouth pursed up. "More red glitter and straw: Miss Gale and accomplice?"

Brass handed him the apple with a dry look. "Apparently the scarecrow has quite a mouth on him, at least according to the local trees. They've lost half a bushel in a heated disagreement."

"Over what?' Grissom asked curiously. Sara was already looking at the grassy knoll, and he was trying not to look at her when she bent over.

"Quality control issues. Apparently the two of them first attempted to nab a free sample or two, and then things got heated when our straw man made some unsavory implications about attributes of the fruit in question."

Grissom shrugged. "They're Macs—everyone knows they're smaller and more expensive."

"Grissom?" Sara called out. The two men crossed the road and went up the grassy hill towards a flatter space. Sara pointed out a few dark blotches on the ground, and indicated a pair of long, oval shaped indentations with overgrown grass edges. "It looks like something was moved from this spot. The spills are oil, I think."

"Lemme ask one of the trees if there was anything of value over this way—" Brass muttered. Grissom nodded and got down on his hands and knees to look at the ovals, talking softly.

"We've got earthworm cast along bare soil—whatever was standing here had to have been in place for at least six months. Two ovals side by side—what does that suggest to you, Sara?"

"Feet," she responded promptly. "There are lighter tracks leading away along the grass and back down to the bricks."

Grissom stared off towards the long and winding road, his gaze sweeping across the trees and fencing. "So why would a person be standing here for at least half a year suddenly begin moving only after Miss Gale and her scarecrow companion show up?"

"Why would he need oil?" came Sara's counter query. "Unless he's related to the Tik Toks or Wheelers—"

"Hold the phone, looks like we've got some new information," Brass grumbled, heading their way, looking distinctly annoyed. "You remember that Missing Persons case from about a year ago? Nick Chopper?"

"The accident-prone young man with the broken heart," Grissom nodded. Brass let out a noisy sigh.

"Yeah well then you remember he had several prosthetic operations and most of them were low budget affairs, in tin."

"Tin?" Grissom echoed uncertainly.

"Tin—don't ask. According to the grove guy, Tin Man's been rusting over here for a while. Then about three hours ago they get into it with Miss Gale and her hayseed sidekick. The two of them find Nick and oil him up enough to get clanking. I'm telling you, Gale must be some sort of ex-hoofer by the amount of dancing she does."

Grissom looked doubtful, but Sara cast a gaze along the brick road, thinking hard. "Maybe it's the straw man."

"You think it's the scarecrow who's the gypsy?" Brass asked, incredulously.

Sara grinned and nodded. "Sure—he'd be loose enough, in a mattressy sort of way."

"Yeah, well if he managed to pick a fight with an orchard, then straw boy's not exactly the brains of the operation," Brass replied firmly.

Grissom had wandered across the road and was looking thoughtfully at a deserted cottage there, his gaze up on the chimney. The other two came over, waiting for him to speak. "Do either of you smell . . . brimstone?"

Brass shook his head, but Sara nodded, sniffing. "Something smoky. Is it coming from the chimney?"

"Not likely—this place hasn't been inhabited in a while. It's odd though—you'd think the last thing a scarecrow would want around him is fire—" Grissom replied. "Which could mean that someone might be following them."

"They could have been roasting the apples," Sara pointed out, but Grissom shook his head.

"Then we'd definitely smell those—roasting apples are pretty notable. This scent is just . . smoke."

"Well the only one with any reason to be after these guys is the sister," Brass pointed out, staring up at the roof. "And from up there, she'd have a pretty good shot at anyone coming down the road."

"Then I guess we'll need a ladder . . . " Sara sighed, trying to ignore her growling stomach.

A few minutes later, Sara was on her way up, her pert buttocks shifting with every rung. Grissom kept a surreptitious eye on her, then shot Brass an annoyed glance when he realized the other man was openly enjoying the sight. Insouciantly, Brass shrugged, his mild grin unapologetic.

"Hey, I'm not made of tin—" he murmured in an undertone to Grissom, who wasn't quite sure how to take the remark. Above them on the roof of the abandoned cottage, Sara called down.

"I've got some scorch marks up here and the streaks are pointing towards . . . THAT direction, " she gestured. Grissom followed her indication and squinted. Brass looked slightly worried.

"Into the forest, and I don't mean in the Sondheim way either. Well, we'll see if anyone else has picked up Miss Gale's trail."

Brass left, and Sara braced her feet on the outsides of the ladder, sliding down gracefully. Grissom watched her, amused and intrigued.

"We still need lunch," he reminded her. "We could grab something from McMunchkins."

"They're off my list—too much salt," came her reply. "But I could go for a poppy seed salad from Emerald's."

Grissom smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

It was just after the post-lunch lull that Sara had the chance to catch up on paperwork for the case. She headed down the hall, intending to dart into Grissom's office with the files on Nick Chopper and the CANON hit on A. Strawmann when her pager went off.

DELAYED BY UNEXPECTED SNOW. G

Instinctively Sara peeked out the windows, seeing nothing but clear sky.

Well, not precisely clear sky: across the blue was a trail of black smoke, spelling out two words in an imperative tone. Puzzling over what the odd message meant, Sara looked down at the files in her hands.

A. Strawmann was in the system on a single count of vagrancy. The Chopper case was a little more extensive, but he had no criminal record, and his former sweetheart had remarried during his absence. Sara wondered idly he knew in his heart of hearts about her defection and if that was why he hadn't returned home.

From what Sara remembered, Miss Gale was young and attractive; it was certainly possible that she'd charmed both the Scarecrow and the Tin Man into coming along with her to the City, although precisely why remained a mystery.

Then again, she remembered, Grissom had often pointed out that the 'why' of a crime wasn't their business. With a sigh, she headed to see Hodges.

"Your shoe glitter is composed of metallic flakes with a micro-fine coating of red dye number two. The only other thing I can tell you is that it's not from around here—" came the technician's dry assessment as he glanced around the green walls and floor.

Sara gave a commiserating shrug. "Hard to be called Emerald City without a little evidence to back it up."

"A little I can live with, but this?" Hodges snorted. "Most of the time I feel like I'm working in a mucus cave."

"That's SO charming—" Sara responded, trying not to smirk. "So what about the oil and tin?"

"The oil's a common general compound; probably Ozzoil, summer weight. The tin flakes are interesting though—they're from plating found only at the Winkie Welding Works shop."

"Yeah, that matches the info we have on Chopper and his prosthetics," Sara murmured, crosschecking the file in her hands. Hodges smirked knowingly.

"You know, I'm all FOR enhancement surgery, but when it extends to rods and pistons, if you know what I mean---"

"Not going there," Sara announced, backing out of his lab with a wince, "SO not going there—thanks—"

She passed the interrogation rooms, where Nick and Warrick were grilling a lavender stallion; Nick caught her eye and motioned. Sara paused at the door and he stepped out, sighing.

"Hey Sare--I don't know how much good this is, but I DID get it straight from the horse's mouth here—your suspect and her friends are somewhere in town."

Reflexively Sara glanced in through the two-way glass, staring at the now orange steed. "He's sure?"

"Took them around himself, he says. Dropped the girl and the lion off at that fancy spa over at Verdigris and Olive, then took the—"

"—Wait a minute, a lion? What lion? The last information I had she was with a scarecrow and this Chopper guy," Sara broke in, perplexed.

"Well I guess she's picked up another pet along the way. Maybe she wanted something bigger than a dog." Nick shrugged. "But the horse is pretty sure of the fare. Says they were all talking about going to see Mr. Big."

At that, Sara arched a skeptical eyebrow. Nick nodded, grinning wryly. "I know, I know—the chances of getting in, especially without bribes or a booking—but you know how tourists are; always thinking they can jump the line."

"I wonder what sob story they'll use?" Sara sighed. Her pager went off again, and the note on it made her thrust the files at Nick as she headed down the hall.

"Drop these on Grissom's desk for me will you?" came her hurried request over her shoulder. Nick nodded, and looked back to the interrogation room, where Warrick was offering a carrot to their grape-colored witness.

00oo00

The traffic was heavier than usual, but Sara made good time, reaching the Poppy fields within half an hour, glad she'd packed her vest. When she caught up with Grissom, he was already finishing up with the photos.

"I see you got through," he commented softly. Sara made a hum of agreement and studied at the area Grissom was photographing. There was a huge wet spot in the snow, with a smaller one next to it, and a tiny one just beyond that one. She looked at Grissom for an explanation.

"Traces of our suspects. I've found more red glitter and straw, but there's also some unusual fur—"

"--Lion fur," she nodded. "Nick has an eyewitness who says Miss Gale and company have picked up a lion as well."

Grissom blinked a little, and cocked his head, looking perplexed. Sara grinned and squatted down, flicking one of the poppies, making the white powder fall off of it. "Unusual weather we're having."

"Oh it's definitely not natural—" he assured her, holding up a bindle. "It refuses to melt, and it hasn't damaged the flowers despite the chill."

Sara smirked. "I'd say it looks like G.T. Good's sort of trademark."

"Really?"

Sara nodded, rising again. "Oh yeah--Light, flaky, not quite all there . . ."

Grissom's quelling look made her laugh, but he looked around the flower meadow once again, his head shaking slightly. "Nothing about this case is making any sense. We have a suspect who's involved in manslaughter and been accused of theft picking up companions on her way to the City, ostensibly to catch a flight back home. She's quite possibly being stalked by the sister of the victim as well."

"Not just possibly—did you see the skywriting earlier today?" Sara asked as they packed up. Before Grissom could reply, his cell phone went off; with an apologetic glance at Sara, he flipped it open.

"Grissom." He listened for a moment, his expression shifting to faint alarm. "Okay. We'll be right there." Shutting the phone off with a snap, he picked up the samples and shot Sara a quick glance. "Brass is talking to one of the palace guards. Apparently Miss Gale and her entourage managed to sweet talk their way into seeing Mr. Big."

The guard was a dumpling of a man in a fuzzy green cloak, chubby cheeked and scared, his mustache a droopy mess. Brass looked up when Sara and Grissom entered the interrogation room.

"These are my associates, Gil Grissom and Sara Sidle, of the EC Crime Lab . . ."

"Pleezetameecha," the little guard murmured uncertainly, his voice a burble. Brass shifted to make room for Sara, then spoke again, his voice soft and coaxing.

"So, Alfie, tell me again how you ended up letting Miss Gale in to see the Great and Terrible Oz, hmmm?"

"Oooh, she cried . . . " the guard burst out miserably. "She got to going on about her Auntie Em dying, and her being ungrateful for everything the old woman done for her and all and I couldn't take it, not a sweet kid like that."

"So what made her cry?"

"I did," the guard snuffled unhappily. "That was me, just doing my job, turnin' people away. I never had nobody CRY about it before, you know? Most of them just go off and don't cause me any more trouble, but this bunch . . . they crowded around her, and gave her hankies and all of them were just going on and ON about how they'd come such a long way and one thing just sorta led to another . . . " he trailed off despondently.

"Who was with Miss Gale?" Grissom asked softly. The Guard wiped his nose on his green fuzzy sleeve.

"Some scarecrow, and fellah all plated up in tin . . . a lion too, with a big red bow on his head—looked like a first class fluff ball, he did."

Sara tried to stay serious. "What did Miss Gale's shoes look like?"

"Shoes?" the guard asked, then brightened. "Oh yeah! Pair of red sparkly things, could see them from a mile off! They looked a little flashy with the rest of the outfit, but . . . " he shrugged apologetically, " . . . Tourists. We get all kinds."

"So what did they see Mr. Big about?" Brass asked, his tone still mild. The guard tensed, and examined one of his big furry mittens. Brass waited a moment, and then leaned forward. "Alfie?"

"Look detective, I don't want any trouble--I've got a wife and kids to feed—" the guard huffed in a low voice, looking scared. "The Head honcho isn't exactly easiest boss to work for, you know—"

"This is City jurisdiction; we'll make sure you aren't harassed for cooperating," Brass soothed him. "So tell us—what's it all about, Alfie?"

The guard made a sour face, but gave a sigh that stirred the ends of his huge mustache. "Well the little gal's tryin' to get home; I GOT that out of it. The scarecrow wants some brains, and the tin fellah needs a heart, and the lion wants courage . . . which would be about as useful to that puffball as wings on a monkey."

"So . . . the four of them all thought the Great and Terrible would just . . . give them their wishes?" Grissom asked gently. Alfie twitched his mustache again.

"I'm telling you--definitely out-of-towners. Mr. Big gave the usual fireworks show but even that didn't scare'em off. He ended up cutting a deal with them—not that I was listening in or anything . . . " Alfie muttered. "You know how it goes when that gasbag gets yelling."

"A deal?" Brass demanded gently, "What sort of deal?"

The guard suddenly looked as green as his uniform. He swallowed audibly, and leaned forward. "Murder," he whispered.

Brass looked flinty for a second; Grissom skeptical. Sara spoke softly. "Alfie . . . you're sure of this?"

He nodded miserably again, eyes filling up once more. "Yes ma'am—all of us gate guards heard it. That was right before the King of the Forest decided to take a dive out one of the hallway windows, and you know that's comin' out of our salaries . . . "

"Any details . . . like who, and when?" Brass persisted. Alfie winced, and rubbed his forlorn face with his fuzzy mittens.

"Ooooooothewickedwitchofthewestbutyoudidn'thearitfromME, okay? Can I go now?"

Brass shook his head, gently but firmly. "No can do, Alfie. Let's see how it goes after you let us know when."

"I don't know!" the guard protested, his face crumpling up, "I swear! They left and that's all I can tell you, honest!"

Grissom glanced over at Brass, who nodded. With a little shrug of his shoulders, Brass rose and smiled at Alfie. "Hang on a sec—"

Out in the hall, Brass spoke first. "Now it's a hit on the sister? What's the deal here?"

"It could have been Mr. Big blowing smoke," Grissom suggested. "Deliberately setting the stakes too high."

"And letting them get killed in the process, " Brass pointed out. "Well one thing's for certain--that sister's out for blood, starting from the shoes on up. I don't think four amateurs are going to be any match for Ms Pissed Off Witchie-Poo, not after that love note in the sky this afternoon. I'm going to get some black and whites rolling and see if we can't stop this before things get out of hand."

"Right," Grissom nodded. "Good luck."

00oo00

For a few hours neither Grissom nor Sara left the lab; there was more than enough to do between filling out paperwork and catching up on backlogged evidence. Then the call came for them about a 419, and they rode out in silence.

Sara looked out the windows at the dark woods, glancing briefly at the sign. "I'd turn back if I were you."

"Why? This is the most direct route," Grissom replied curiously. Sara shook her head.

"That was the sign out there. Not exactly a warm welcome."

"Ah."

They pulled up a steep driveway into a scene already marked off by green crime scene tape and patrolmen. Brass stepped out to meet them, his expression difficult to read.

"There's . . . not much left to work with," he admitted.

Grissom looked concerned, and gave a nod. He glanced over at Sara, but she returned his look with a serious gaze. "I'm good," she assured him.

The three of them walked up the stone steps into the castle and were ushered to the ramparts, where police were questioning several towering guards in fur cloaks and bearskins. Grissom ducked under the green crime scene tape and looked at the steaming remains for a long, intense moment.

"What happened?" he asked, squatting down to take in a new perspective on the wet pile of black garments on the paving stones.

Brass sighed. "According to the help, Ms W.W. West intercepted Miss Gale and her associates on their way to her castle here, and managed to nab the girl with a little help from her pals at Banana Airlines."

When Sara bit back a snort, Grissom frowned at Brass, who gave another shrug. "Sorry—long day. Anyway, a few witnesses here at the castle claim they heard threats from the owner and a lot of crying from Ms. Gale, all of it over the shoes, apparently."

"The shoes?" Grissom questioned in disbelief as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Brass pursed his mouth and nodded.

"The shoes. It's amazing the lengths some gals will go to for a pair."

"That is SO sexist," Sara murmured, snapping pictures of the still steaming rags. "I thought you were all about the PC."

"I was until I had to waltz my way through the flight path of Ms. WW's flying henchmen. Right now MY shoes aren't looking any too good," Brass rumbled.

"Moving on—" Grissom interrupted sternly, fishing for long tweezers and tentatively lifting a fold of the wet material. Brass cleared his throat.

"Yeah, well Miss Gale's dog gave everyone the slip apparently and led her buddies back here. The three of them came in with the guards and managed to free her, but they all got stopped, chased and cornered along the parapet."

"Nasty," Sara commented, setting the camera down. "But if Ms. West had the upper hand, what happened?"

"She tried to flambé the scarecrow, but Miss Gale had the presence of mind to snag the fire bucket and douse him. Unfortunately, she also dunked Ms. West, who then dissolved like an Alka-Seltzer in an ugly black dress--" he tipped his head adding, "The end."

"Aquagenous Urticaria," Grissom murmured, fascinated. He leaned forward and pulled up a section of the soggy clothing. "Water allergy—very rare, and in this case, fatal."

"She was allergic to water?" Sara echoed, frowning.

Grissom nodded. "As I said, rare, but it does happen."

"Kinda makes you wonder if she was naturally green, or . . . " Brass trailed off, looking slightly mischevious. Sara shot him a dry look, but her lips twitched. Grissom missed the exchange as he transferred the sodden clothing into a plastic evidence bag.

"I'm sure Doc Robbins will be able to confirm the allergy with whatever DNA might be left in this. So this is the second time Miss Gale has been inadvertantly responsible for manslaughter."

"Yeah, her track record with witches isn't looking too good," Brass agreed dolefully. "Unfortunately she and her accomplices took off shortly after the deed. The jolly green giants here let her take the vic's broomstick, which I assume is a trophy for Mr. Big. I've got people watching for Miss Gale and the other three."

"On what charge?" Grissom asked in a practical tone.

"Fleeing the scene of a crime, for one. If Mr. Big accepts that broomstick then it's the commission of a crime, and even THAT doesn't fly in Oz."

00oo00

The processing didn't take as much time; as Grissom pointed out, without a body, things went more quickly. Sara had just finished bagging the two foot hourglass when Grissom stuck his head through the chopped out hole in the door and called to her.

"We have to get back; Miss Gale and her companions have been spotted in City Square."

This time Sara drove; it was their unspoken agreement. When no real hurry was needed, Grissom took them to scenes, but if time was of the essence, Sara had the reflexes and nerve to make moves that had entire rainbows jumping to get the hell out of her way. They made it to the City gates in record time, but the chubby guard there only shrugged helplessly at them from his cubby hole, hanging out to yell.

"Sorry folks, it's the Wizard—he's got a press conference goin' on inside!"

Sara eyed the guard through the windshield. "Is it just me, or do you think he's related to Alfie?"

"Nepotism is pretty much an established system for these old posts," Grissom agreed. "Thanks to the Lollipop Guild."

They parked the car just inside the gate, locking it securely and began walking, making their way through the assembled crowds packed in around City Square. Grissom frowned, looking up ahead to the dais. "He's got a balloon."

"So?" Sara replied, looking at the fancy silk contraption quivering on mooring lines. "And what's an Omaha State Fair?"

"I don't know, but I see Brass off to the left—" Grissom responded, his tone growing serious. Moving politely but quickly, he and Sara worked their way to the dais. Six feet before they reached it, however, the balloon rose up, and the crowd surged, packing more tightly than ever. Sara wriggled as the people around here yelled goodbye upwards to the apple-cheeked man leaning out of the basket over their heads.

Just when she despaired of ever getting out of the loving mosh pit around her, everyone dropped to one knee. Bewildered, she felt herself pulled down next to Grissom. "What the hell?"

"G.T. Good is up there, with Miss Gale. Can you move?" he asked quietly. The twittering voice of the sugar pink woman carried in the silence, her laugh a curious blend of bubbly peals.

"No," Sara wheezed, struggling a little. "And someone's got fingers they're about to LOSE if they don't move them—"

Grissom flinched and quickly shifted; Sara stared at him for a moment, watching the red flush up his cheeks. "Sorry," he muttered, not looking at her.

"Grissom?" she lightly accused, a smirk crossing her face. He risked a sidelong glance, and Sara's grin widened.

He held out a hand.

She took it.

Then the crowd around them oooohhhed and ahhhhhed; looking up, they realized Miss Gale had disappeared.

A moment later the crowd began to loosen and disperse, and in the general movement both Sara and Grissom were able to work their way over to Brass, who was looking dolefully at the dais.

"She got away," Grissom sighed. "After all this time we were always a few steps behind her and she got away. Jim—I'm sorry."

Brass shrugged. "She'll be back."

"You don't know that, not for sure," Sara pointed out gently, trying to be soothing. Brass turned his head and looked at her, his dark eyes holding an impish look.

"Oh I KNOW she'll be back. You hear what G.T. told her to do?"

"Click her heels three times and think 'There's no place like home'." Sara and Grissom chimed in together.

"Yeah exactly. And while most of the City were down there on one knee waiting for that to happen, I just happened to . . . "

Brass nodded, and slowly, very slowly held up something.

A single ruby slipper.

He gave a mild little smile, turning the shoe over in his hands. "The way I figure it, she's somewhere over the rainbow, but you know guys . . . it's probably NOT Kansas."

end


End file.
